


Dream [Of]

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Experimental, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These days, Bran can only dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream [Of]

In his sickbed Bran dreams.

  
Once upon a time a crow pecked out three eyes and flew away. He pecked out a brown eye, a green eye, and a grey eye, and flew off into a cave. He planted all three and sat on them the way a hen would warm its chicks, lovingly, tenderly, with great care and great love. The crow crooned to the eyes a soft song of nightingales, "Grow my children, grow and be strong and brave and good."

  
Two withered and the third sprouted to be a monstrous grey wall that swallowed the crow whole.

  
He cawed for help but he was alone.

  
Bran calls for help but he is alone.

  
He watches the sky fade into greyness and swallow him whole. He watches snow bury his home in white and blot out the landscape in white and blot out the sky in white until everything is white and darkness ceases to exist. He watches the snow fall. He watches while winter falls. He watches as a window is yanked out of his sight and he falls into darkness.

He dreams of sunshine. 

-

In the forest Bran dreams. 

He dreams of endless winter, he dreams of snows and ice and six months of night. He dreams of endless wars, of blood, of battles, the precious little that is not war. He dreams of the past, dreams of a small godswood where a man cleans, polishes a sword, a man who whispers confessions and confessions of sins not his and tiny snatches of a dream of peace, unaware of the carrions of war calling about his head. 

Those dreams, Bran knows, were snatched away by winter. Winter was coming. Winter has come. Winter is everywhere. Winter, Bran dreams of, winter is winter and bitter, and the cold bites into his skin where the weirwood does not, and worst of all Bran cannot tell which winter was real. 

He cannot tell if the snows stained by direwolf blood has passed, cannot tell if this is the chill that will wither all the roses of the kingdom. He dreams and does not know which dream to trust. 

He dreams for summer. 

-

In a cave Bran dreams. 

He does not want to be friendless. But he doesn't not want company. He does not want to be forsaken. He does not want to be afraid. He is unable to be fearless. 

He is alone. The cave is empty and cold, snow turned over and out by a half-lifeless body desparate to escape cold and merciless hands. A warm body settles on his lap and he buries his sinks his stiff fingers into its soft fur. 

He is not alone. Here is a frog speared by an expert arrow, here a plaintive echo of a name. Here, is Jojen. Here are a dozen wrathful wights. Here is a direwolf to chase them away from a dreaming boy. 

He is alone and a grey frost creeps over his dead feet. Nothing chases it away. Another layer of ice wraps around his heart. Half of it is missing. A wolf howls in the distance. 

He dreams of Summer. 

-

In his castle Bran dreams. 

Everyone left rallies around Bran, who had fallen but survived. They tighten around the Lord Stark, tighten around Bran to protect him. 

The walls press in and the Wall is there to contain. He dreams of weirwoods beyond the wall. 

He dreams of Northern woods. Northern rocks, northern rivers, the north of his blood the north that is his blood splattered in his blood stained with their blood  
feels the snow, cold and clean against his skin, the ice at every step 

bounds into the landscape and into the night

smell blood in the air enemies downwind 

rip out their throats 

pack is there pack is south 

He howls. 

 

He dreams as Summer.


End file.
